Big Love Abroad Read online

  Update: Nina isn't made for long walks along narrow European streets, dragging a bunch of luggage.

  Further update: I must have looked like a comedy act, since people kept staring at me.

  Tertiary update: The terms wet, bedraggled, drowned rat, and soaked to the bone are not at all cute, funny, or in any way pleasant when applied to one's self.

  Two blocks from the train station, the heavy grey skies broke open, unleashing a heavy torrent of rain. It wasn't the nice, warm, summery kind of rain, either. It was hard and cold and biting.

  I found myself wishing I'd stayed in London, in bed with Ian, where it was dry and warm. I would have had the distinct advantage of feeling Ian's burly arms around me, rather than being cold and wet.

  I held back a sniffle and pretended it was just rain on my cheek. I lugged my suitcase over a sizable crack in the sidewalk and continued on, pausing at the next intersection to double-check my progress. No sense wishing for Ian, now. He was back in London, in my flat, or what had been my flat, and he would be waking up at some point soon and discover me missing. He would probably think: to hell with crazy American fat chicks. Or, at least, that one specifically.

  I was not crying. It was just the rain on my face. I had got myself into this from start to finish, and I had no one to blame but myself. I had flirted with a man miles out of my league, I had let him get me into bed, I had allowed myself to think I could do casual sex, and then I had panicked when shit started to become real.

  Brakes squealed in the street to my left. "Excuse me, miss?" A thick English accent, a smooth male voice.

  I stumbled to a halt and looked at the speaker, and had to blink a few times. He was hot as hell. What was this? Attack of the sexy Englishmen? He had tanned skin, dark eyes, brown or maybe grey, thick brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. He was wearing a long-sleeve rugby shirt with alternating wide orange and blue stripes and a white collar. A closely-trimmed brown beard framed an expressive mouth, and rimless glasses sat on his nose, lightly spattered with droplets of rain from his opened window. He looked about thirty, maybe a little more, sophisticated, maybe a bit nerdy in the clean-cut university graduate student way.

  "Hi," I said, pulling myself out of my stupor. "Can I help you?"

  He laughed, flashing bright white teeth in an easy smile. "No, you've got it backwards. I was going to offer you a ride, if you'd like one." His gaze flicked quickly over my wet, bedraggled appearance. "You look a bit wet, but no worse for wear."

  "Um. Yeah, I'm definitely wet. And definitely worse for the wear."

  He jerked the parking brake upward, threw open the door of his car--a Citroen, maybe? I wasn't too big into cars in general, let alone European models you never see in the U.S. He took two long strides toward me. Holy hell, he was tall. Six foot four, easily, if not more. Thin, though, long and lean and wiry. When he got out of the car, it was like watching something enormous expand in slow motion. He stood up and just kept going up and up and up. He grabbed one of my bags and opened the hatch of his car, slid my bag in easily, then did the same for the other one, quickly closing the hatch once more and tossing my remaining bag onto the small backseat. Then he darted around the car and folded himself into the driver's seat which was on the right side of the car. Weird.

  The whole time I was just standing there, mouth agape, wondering what was happening to me this time.

  I mean, seriously? If anyone was going to rescue me from the rain, it just had to be another sexy Brit. It couldn't have been a kindly old man, or a mom with a car full of kids. If this were a movie, this is where a nice middle-aged woman with an ample cleavage, smelling of patchouli and cats, with reading glasses hanging by a gold chain around her neck would stop for me and bring me to her flat and make me tea and share sage words of hard-won wisdom.

  But no, not this time. This time it just had to be another temptation, another distraction. I mean, I'd left Ian less than three hours ago. I could still smell him on my skin. I'd showered, thinking maybe that would wake him up and take the choice away from me, but Ian had slept on while I'd showered, dressed, packed...I'd stood staring at him for a moment, waiting for him to wake up and ask me what the hell I was doing, but he never did. He just slept on, oblivious to my betrayal, or my cowardice, or however my vanishing act could be described.

  "Are you getting in, miss?"

  I shook my head, as if to physically shake the thoughts out of my skull. "Yeah, sorry. It's been a long day."

  A quizzical look. "It's half past eight in the morning."

  "I--I've just--I mean--" I had no idea what to say. None at all.

  Fortunately, he took it in stride. "Well, get in, get in." He gestured at the passenger door, on the left side of the car. Still weird.

  I got in. "Thanks. I'm all wet, so, sorry about the upholstery."

  He waved his hand. "It's leather, it'll clean off all right." A tug on the gearshift and the car bolted forward, pushing me back in my seat. "So, to the university, I assume?"

  "Yeah, the university. Thanks again."

  "No worries. It's actually rather a nice walk, if it's not raining and you're not fighting a load of unwieldy luggage." He dug in the console cubby between the seats and came up with a handful of napkins, offering them to me. "Not much, but it'll get your face dry, at least. I'm Lucas Killian, by the way."

  "Nina Herrera. Nice to meet you."

  "Nice to meet you too, Nina." He paused at a sign of some kind, turned right, and then returned his glance to me. "So, you're a new student, then?"

  I nodded, dabbing at my face with the napkin. "Yeah. I'm early, though. Term doesn't start for a few more weeks. I'm not sure what I'm going to do between now and then."

  "Oh, I'm sure they'll get you sorted. Being early might even mean you could get your pick of the unassigned single rooms. The libraries will be mostly empty, too, so you can spend as much time as you want in there, no classes to get in the way of reading." He shrugged, stammered. "If--if you're into that sort of thing, I mean. But then you've come to Oxford, so I imagine you are that sort to some degree, right? I mean, you don't really go to Oxford if you're not--" He cut himself off. "Fuck it, I'm rambling again."

  I couldn't help but laugh. "I am most definitely that sort, Lucas. I'm a literature nerd, so having the library to myself sounds like a special kind of heaven."

  "A fellow bookworm!" His face lit up. "I'm in the literature department too, actually. I can show you where all the best manuscripts are, if you like. The Bodleian Library is...there just aren't words to describe it. It's history in its purest form, truly. The smell of the Bodleian, all those stacks...thousands of years of literature...there's nowhere else like it in all the world, if you ask me."

  His excitement and passion were palpable, and contagious. "God, the Bodleian Library, I've heard so much about it. I can't believe I'm really going to see it! Up until now it hasn't really seemed real that I'm actually going to be studying at the University of Oxford."

  Lucas smiled at me, and then pointed straight ahead. "Well, it's really real, Nina Herrera. There's Christ Church right there."

  I was lost in the sights as I fell silent trying to take it all in. Lucas seemed content to let me look as he navigated the car through a series of sharp turns down narrow lanes between the tall, ancient stone buildings. Eventually he found a parking spot, seemingly at random, and pulled into it. Rain pattered steadily on the roof and the windows. Beyond the glass I could see a long, low building stretching out into the distance, with castle-like spires piercing the sodden, leaden sky, the tan-colored stone darkened by the rain. I'd paid no attention to where we were going, so when Lucas snagged an umbrella from the backseat of the car and got out, I followed him. He opened the umbrella and held it out for me, ducking under and standing close to me. And then he managed to somehow lead me while simultaneously walking beside me. We came to a doorway and then we were in a small pub with a low ceiling. The place was dark and warm and dry with the sound of qu
iet voices and the faint tinny sound of music on so low you could barely hear it, just enough to provide a background atmosphere. Despite the fact that it was summer, it was cool outside, so there was a small fire flickering in the fireplace.

  "Go sit by the fire and dry out, and I'll get us some drinks." He set off confidently, and then stopped abruptly and turned around, hesitating. "Um. I suppose I should ask...what would you like to drink?"

  I shrugged. "Tea?"

  "Right, right. Early for a pint, I suppose."

  "Maybe a little," I agreed.

  "A little, yes. Later, then. Pints, I mean." He blinked several times, staring at me, as if parsing whether he'd just made any sense or not. And then he shook himself and gave a shy, nervous, but bright smile. "Tea it is, then."

  I watched him as he leaned easily against the bar and spoke in low tones to the bartender. There were only a few other people in the pub, four young guys with messy hair and bleary eyes as if the pints they were drinking at this hour were part of a long night rather than the first of a long day. There was an older gentleman with white hair and a beard wearing an actual tweed blazer who was reading a paper and drinking tea. Oh god, how perfect, he actually had a pipe, too, smoke curling up from the briar bowl clutched in one elegant yet gnarled hand. It was like a scene from any number of books I'd read, but here it was in real life.

  I took a seat by the fire in a deep, thick armchair, sinking down and sighing with relief. The fire warmed me and dried the moisture out of my clothes and off my face as I waited for Lucas to bring the tea. He brought them one at a time, white ceramic plates with small pots of tea, white strings and tags hanging over the sides of the pots, a tiny cup of milk, and a couple cubes of sugar. He carried them carefully, awkwardly, setting one plate down on the table between the two armchairs, then returned with the second. I reached for the pot of water nearest me, but Lucas was already pouring a small measure of milk into the mug, and then the tea, adding a sugar cube, stirring it a few times, and then handing it to me.

  "Here...oh, I--I hope you take your tea with milk and sugar. I suppose I should have--um, is it all right?"

  I laughed. "Yeah, it's fine. Thanks."

  He fixed his own tea the same way, and then lifted the mug to me. "Cheers. Here's to Oxford, and the Bodleian."

  "Cheers to that!" I agreed.

  "Hear, hear!" the old man with the pipe said, lifting his own mug of tea. "To the Bodleian!"

  I found myself amused and endeared by Lucas's mannerisms. One moment he'd be confident and assured, and the next he'd be shy, unsure, hesitant. It was an odd mix, especially when combined with his tall frame and handsome features. He was totally unlike Ian, who was intensely masculine, dominant but not arrogant, and definitely self-assured. Lucas's presence wasn't quite so dominating, but that wasn't a bad thing. Where Ian set me on edge, keeping me guessing and wondering, on pins and needles every moment, Lucas was easy and relaxed. After our toast, Lucas seemed totally content to sit and sip his tea, stare out the window and ruminate in his own thoughts. He was not ignoring me; I had the feeling that if I spoke he'd be totally engaged, but he was just...comfortable with his own silence.

  I wasn't.

  I was wondering what the hell I was doing, sitting here having tea with a strange man, when Ian was back in London wondering where the hell I was.

  I was also wondering why a significant portion of me was attracted to Lucas, who was in so many ways the exact opposite of Ian. What was wrong with me? Was I being disloyal to Ian? Wait, no, that was stupid. Being disloyal to Ian was vanishing on him the morning after earth-shaking sex. But why did I feel guilty about being attracted to Lucas? Because I was. He...fed the hunger of a different part of me, somehow. His shy, endearing, yet occasionally bold mannerisms affected me in a way that was quite different from the way Ian affected me.

  Gah. Why was I spending so much time and mental energy thinking about this? I'd known Lucas for five seconds, and I was already going in circles about him. There had to be something seriously wrong with me. No joke.

  I shoved my wildly circuitous thoughts away and enjoyed my tea and the quiet atmosphere of the pub, including the sweet, faint scent of the old man's pipe. Lucas's presence, even though he was absorbed in his own thoughts, was strangely comforting.

  Neither of us spoke as we continued to sip our tea. This was fine.

  We poured more tea, sipped it, and still there was no verbal exchange.

  Still fine.

  And then Lucas glanced at me, blinked owlishly, as if startled by my presence. "Oh. Um. Sorry, I'm sort of really shit at small talk in, like, social situations. Or--or at all, really. I just kind of get lost in my own head, and I didn't forget you were here, because um, I mean, how could I? One doesn't just forget about such beauty as yours." He blushed. "I. Um. Yeah." He ducked his head, and a long strand of brown hair escaped his ponytail and caught in his beard near his mouth.

  I felt an absurd urge to brush it away, and bravely resisted the temptation.

  I blushed too. "Thanks. It's fine, though. I enjoy sitting quietly sometimes."

  "That's a rare quality, actually. Most people, I've found--most people tend not to be able to just sit and think and be alone, or spend time with someone without talking. Especially when you've just met someone, most people tend to think they have to fill every moment with words." He shrugged, and then his gaze swept over me, speculative. "So. You said, when I stopped for you, you said it's been a long day, but it's barely morning, yet."

  I traced a fingertip around the rim of the mug, staring down at the half-inch or so of tea. "Just...drama. I left London rather suddenly, and--" I lifted a shoulder, not willing to get into my inner turmoil concerning Ian, especially not with another attractive male.

  He nodded, rotating his mug on the tray so the handle was at right angles to the pot, an absent gesture. "I see. So...are you worried about your...drama...following you here?"

  What a sweet thought, so delicately phrased. "No, no, it's nothing like that. It's just one of those situations--"

  He held up a hand. "No need to explain, if you don't want to. Sometimes, with drama like that, I think maybe it's best to just busy yourself and make yourself actively not worry about it, you know? That's my experience at least." He smiled at me, warm and understanding. "Should we go get your room sorted out, then?"

  I nodded and accepted his hand, letting him help me stand up, ignoring the fact both of us sort of forgot to let go right away. Lucas drove me across the campus and showed me to the correct office, introduced me to the correct person, and then hovered behind me, rubbing at the back of his neck.

  "Are you all right, then?" he finally asked, taking a hesitant half-step toward me.

  "Yeah, I'm good. I can manage from here, I think." I wasn't sure whether to hug him or shake his hand, so I just sort of stood awkwardly too close to him, but didn't actually make any kind of contact. "Thank you, Lucas. You really came to the rescue today. I'm not sure what I would have done had you not come along."

  He shrugged. "Gotten even wetter, I imagine. It was my pleasure. Truly." He did the hand-rubbing-the-back-of-his-neck thing again, just beneath his ponytail. It was, like so much about him, an endearingly adorable mannerism. "Well, perhaps I'll see you at the library, then."

  "I think you will, most certainly." Oh god, that sounded really British. The more I heard the accent, the more my brain tried unconsciously to imitate it.

  "Good, very--very good." He shot me another warm, quick smile, and then he was gone.

  I returned my focus to the woman that would be assigning me a room, and tried to forget all about sexy accents, whether coming from an alpha-male with intense blue eyes, or a sweet, shy, bookworm.

  CHAPTER 8

  Two and a half weeks. That's how long I made it without any drama.

  As luck would have it, I was assigned a single room overlooking a small courtyard in a building on the far edge of the campus. It was small, warm and sparsely furnished, but it w
as mine, and I loved it. I found a second-hand bicycle in town and had great fun pedaling slowly around the idyllic, historic grounds of Oxford, a few thick books in the wicker basket attached to the handlebars. Sometimes I'd have a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and a block of cheese and I'd spend entire days on a quilt under a tree, reading in the sun.

  I read Mansfield Park for the fourth time, then spiced things up with Lolita--god, that opening line is such genius, such pure, unadulterated art: "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul." (Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov.) Then I indulged in the first three of Julia Quinn's Bridgerton series before moving on to the more serious fare of A Farewell to Arms by Hemingway. Oh, Hemingway. His style has been described by thousands of critics and students in so many different ways but, to me, he's the epitome of the eloquence of concision. His prose is like a marble sculpture, he as the artist chiseling and chipping away at a monolith of mineral, steadily and confidently, to reveal the curves and angles of the true beauty beneath. Then there's Dickens. Of course there's Dickens, with his long, looping, recursive sentences, each clause crafted with care, puzzle-fit to mate just so with the next, sentences weaving and curling and swooping and soaring with such artful British precision. The age-old question: A Tale of Two Cities, or Great Expectations. Or maybe Oliver Twist. Each of them a classic but for my money, Great Expectations tells such a wonderfully unexpected tale.

  I've been rambling on about books I've read a dozen times each and written countless essays on. But after two and a half weeks of book nerd paradise I was getting bored.

  I roamed the library. Perhaps "roamed" isn't the right word. "Prowled", perhaps, is more accurate. Skulked in the stacks. Inched through the aisles. Hunted restlessly through the Dewey rows. For books, for treasures, yes...but also for one particular person with long brown hair.

  I found him toward the middle of the second week, as I was ruminating on a particularly excellent translation of Beowulf. He was in a far corner, sitting on a bench, flipping between the original text of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Tolkien's brilliant translation.